libri cruor
by lady.lucks
Summary: one hundred different pairs of eyes, one hundred different, distinct memories. this is a collection of one-shots from varying perspectives-- see if you can guess who they are. all characters are included. dedicated to my dorks-for-life over at twilighted.
1. i anno domini

**stl: ave maria**

* * *

On nights such as this, where he could find no solace in mundane conversation nor any reprieve in the nighttime love songs of the birds, he would sit with this, his holy grail, and read. He would read of great triumph and devastating heartbreak. His mind would flood with lust and betrayal. His every sense was bombarded with varying emotions as he read. His fingers danced slowly across the weathered page, his eyes glossed with the memory written there in his eloquent ways with his impeccable calligraphy.

These tales, he showed to no one. They were not his to share with the world; they were private affairs that he had been graced with the knowledge of. They were black and white photographs of the past, movie reels of the present, the faintest glimmer of hope in the infinite possibilities of the future. These anonymous parables foretold of sorrow and joy, death and the beauty of first life, each as distinct in tone as the next. He had taken it upon himself to weave these words in red into the finest of parchments.

This was his Bible, for his god had given up on him so very long ago...


	2. ii gaudeamus igitur

**stl: pavarotti.**

* * *

The war wasn't over-- he would never be so vain, so sure of himself, to assume that. But this battle, this first blow, they had won. There was defeat streaked across the faces of their enemies while a few pairs crimson eyes blazed with the promise of revenge. He squared his shoulders against their threats, presenting his own challenge.

_I dare you,_ it said.

_Come closer,_ it beckoned.

Not one of the guard moved in advance, instead they sank back like a band of cowards, retreated into the dense woods. He watched their departure intently as he took his wife into his arms, laying distracted kisses at the crown of her head. He had walked into this campaign not knowing if he would ever have the opportunity to hold her again, to tell her, _show _her, just how much he loved her. And love her he did. She was his angel and he worshiped the ground she walked on, savored every sigh, relished every scream. The last hours had not guaranteed him this moment again with her.

But now, and for however briefly, the threat had passed and he could once again resume his life by her side as her husband, her lover, her friend. The heavy armor of protector could once again be placed upon a shelf, collecting dust until circumstance called him back into action. Lovingly, he scooped her up, cradling her against his chest as he turned to walk to their home. Over miles of rugged terrain he carried her, refusing to let her delicate feet touch the ground until he was able to place her on their bed.

With care he slipped her shoes, her clothing from her lily white body, discarding the materials haphazardly around the bed. Today, however slight, had been a victory and he would celebrate it with his wife the only way he truly knew how. A hundred years ago he would have boasted with a mug of ale in his hand, riotous laughter and singing every homecoming song he had ever known. That was then, he reminded himself as he parted her thighs and slid between them. He was not a heathen but a married man. A man married to a woman who's sole existence revolved around her love for him. Now he would pour his love out to her in gentle kisses, some no more than the touch of butterfly wings along her lips. Now he would pay homage to every inch of silk that covered her body.

Today had been a victory.

And today he would rejoice in one more minute, one more hour by her side. Today, with her soft sighs of ecstasy echoing throughout their room, he would rejoice in the honor it was to live, to die, by her side. And as she lay in his arms, he would whisper a prayer of thanks to whatever god was listening that she had survived, that he did not have to live an eternity without her.

Yes, there was much to rejoice about now that the danger had passed.


	3. iii di meliora

**stl: nine inch nails, 'closer'**

* * *

He had grown so tired of running.

This was not a fate he could escape. His mind fought a constant battle: raise the white flag of defeat or run to the ends of the earth like a coward. For so long he had chosen the latter option. For so long, he kept a vigilant watch over his shoulder. And it all came down to this moment; he pressed himself flat against the wall and waited as his pursuer crept closer.

The muscles in his back tensed and rippled with every carefully chosen move; he was at once the most beautiful and most horrific thing he had ever lain eyes upon. His full lips curved into a Cheshire grin, teeth gleaming in the waning moonlight. His eyes were a deep scarlet that sent wave after wave of panic though him.

Everything about him screamed _predator_.

A muscled forearm reached out, strong hand wrapping around his throat as fingers dug into the flesh. If he had been human, the anger would have been palpable in the form of searing heat but instead the rage rippled under the surface as he closed the distance between their bodies. The smile twisted into something more primal, deadly, as he nudged his cheek, inhaling the fear, the anxiety.

"P-please." It was a pathetic sound in the darkness, high pitched and whining. It was a useless plea and he knew it. Nothing he said, no move he made would speed up this chess game-- he had been in check for too long now. He was too patient and calculating.

The end would come on his terms only.

He could swear to God and every deity he had ever known that the other man's lips danced lightly across his face, landing for just a moment on his lips. Every fiber in his being panicked, sought for an escape, urged him to fight and flee but the tendons and sinew refused to cooperate and he remained at the mercy of his captor. Without a moment's hesitation, there was no longer doubt. Soft lips crushed against his, bruising them with the intensity of the kiss. Warily, he reached out to explore the contours of the well defined arms that had him pinned to the wall as their mouths battled for dominance.

Too soon, he pulled away.

He could feel the rumble of sardonic laughter before it reached his consciousness-- the bastard was mocking him. Before he could voice his disdain for the farce, the warm lips were back, gentle this time, silently asking for entrance. The fierce grip around his throat loosened into a near intimate touch, fingers tracing along the taut muscles of his neck. The razor sharp teeth nipped at his bottom lip causing him to jump ever so slightly. Another quiet chuckle echoed in the night as the kisses grew almost non-existent.

"Why are you doing this?" Even to his own ears he wasn't sure that he had said anything at all. One more tender kiss before the world spun into complete pitch.

"You bring me that much closer to God."


	4. iv ego genus

**stl: dope, 'you spin me round'**

* * *

To him, life was a series of conquests.

Those that were easy left him feeling hollow; as if the passion that perpetually surged through him had suddenly been purged far too soon. They came with the territory, however, and over time he had grown used to the idea though he still loathed the knowledge with everything he had. He was an almighty being, dominant over his victims and was more than willing to flex that power. The easier his prey, the more prone to bouts of rage he became in pursuit of a worthy adversary.

Or one that would simply tremble under his touch.

The slight brunette in his sight held the distinct possibility of being 'fun.' Perhaps she would scream. Perhaps she would beg for mercy._ I am not a merciful god_, he would sneer before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of her neck-- not unlike the give of watermelon in his greedy mouth in the summers from when he was a child, when he was alive. Her pace quickened; he could taste the intoxicating fear and panic on the warm evening breeze and it made his mouth water with anticipation. His stride matched hers, measure for measure, as she stepped into a side street overrun with vermin and restaurant discards.

_Poor kitten, you haven't a clue, have you?_

Abruptly, she stopped, bracing herself for an assault. All traces of the girl's anxiety fled. The air was now thick with quite another emotion altogether-- defiance. She was willing to play hard to get? The thought amused him, bringing a smile to his lips and a devious twinkle to his eye. Oh, he was more than eager to play along if this is what she truly wanted. He could draw it out for days, if she wished. He stood at the gaping mouth of the alley, waiting.

He watched, almost for curiosity's sake alone, as she slowly turned her head, staring at him through a veil of chestnut. If she had been more than human, more like the god he was, it would have posed as a threatening gesture but weak as she was in her very fragile state, he was in no danger. In fact, it sent a rush through him-- her insolence coursed his veins not unlike the purest heroin, flooding his brain.

Oh how he would savor this.

Before she had a chance to react, to turn on him with flailing limbs and useless, clenched fists, he was behind her, one hand holding her head steady and mouth shut, the other holding her against his body in an iron grip. A spark of fear fluttered in the night and dispersed before he could fully enjoy it. He tightened his grasp, both on her jaw and her hip, willing her to struggle. When she refused to cooperate, he flung her against the wall, taking great delight in the sickening crack of her skull as it connected with the rust-red brick. Her eyes still held no trace of distress. A snarl ripped from his throat as he approached her; he was bordering on an absolute loss of control. Where he thought he had had a worthwhile thrill was now turning into a grade-A, bonafide tantrum in the making.

"They'll come for you."

Four simple words tipped him over the precipice and into insanity. Raging, he clawed at her, bit into the taut muscle of her neck. How dare she? She was supposed to be quivering with apprehension! She was supposed to be pleading with him, endlessly questioning why! _Why!_ _**WHY!**_ He dropped her mutilated body to the filthy ground, disgusted with his inability to control his temper.

Maybe he should see a therapist about these mood swings of his...


	5. v diligo pro totus infinito

**stl: coldplay, 'viva la vida'**

* * *

_Once upon a time..._

All of his stories begin as such.

_Once upon a time, a great king fell in love._

Once upon a time, he ruled the world his heart, his broad smile as his shield, his carefree laughter as his sword. His enemies owed their precious lives to the woman who stood by his side, aided his every decision. He was in debt much more than his eternity; his love, though greater than any love before or after, hardly seemed to show his gratitude for her fidelity, her trust. His soul danced with hers in the mid-afternoon light in the clover fields. He would lay along side her while she wove intricate crowns of flowers, graciously bowing his head as she reverently placed them on the crown of her beloved imperator's head. In turn, he placed the delicate blossoms in her hair, claiming her as his queen. At night, he would take her hand and lead her through the winding streets of the city and hold her, watching in muted fascination as Canes Venatici, Cassiopeia and Cepheus spun in the heavens.

_Once upon a time, he held the world and its riches in his own arms._

Years have clouded his memories, diluting them into mere fantasies that even he isn't sure ever occurred. His eyes no longer stared into the keen eyes of the twinkling Phoenix, no longer whispered a good evening to the Ursas. His feet rarely traveled beyond the boundaries of home, never gracing the plush greens along the river where he had spent so very many years, years that he thought would never end. He sat alone with his thoughts as the days came and went, each melting lazily into the next. The precise year of the present, Anno Domini two-thousand... No, no, that wasn't right. Anno Domini... six hundred thirty-two. Yes, that was accurate. Six hundred plus years had passed him since he lost the soul of his existence.

_Once upon a time, a great king fell in love..._


	6. vi beatus iugum

**stl: barber, 'adagio for strings'**

* * *

He was her asylum; in the shadow of his arms she could afford to fall apart while he painstakingly stitched her back together, one shattered piece of her story at a time. Some days he would question her motives-- when she would sneak in and mold herself to the contours of his body-- and others he would let sleeping dogs lie. Today, she could taste the questions forming on his tongue as she kissed him. Today, she would give nothing away. Let him read it in the fine print of her skin, if he wanted answers. Let his fingers dance along the raised Braille her body offered him.

Today, she had no tragedy to divulge.

She smiled against the smooth skin of his neck before pressing her lips firmly there, lacing her fingers in his hair. In the dim afternoon glow, beneath the ever darkening thunderheads, he melted into her touch, conforming to her every wish. Gently, she pushed and he responded, stretching himself along the damp earth while her mouth and hands darted around every exposed inch of flesh. He had never known such intimacy as this-- she pulled from him emotions long since buried as he drank up the intoxicating affection she was serving.

Today, she had only a fairytale to write.

Mindful of the silence, they shed the confines of their clothing. His eyes burned with a passion for knowledge, a need to understand but she would offer him nothing except her soul, should he be so inclined as to take it. She wrapped her arms around his torso, pulling him painfully close as the rain kept meter with every stroke, every wave of euphoria. She dug her nails into his back, drawing jagged lines, writing the musical notes of this dance that would fade before her very next breath. She had waited for far too long for this moment, the very second that she could turn herself over to him completely and without restraint. The world blurred into an oil canvas of vibrant green and deep umber and rich grays.

Today, she had finally read the beginning of 'Happily Ever After.'


	7. vii pro ego sum mortuus

**s****tl: kidney thieves, 'before i'm dead'**

**

* * *

  
**

He did not believe in God.

He did not believe in the Devil.

As far as he was concerned, he served the duality well enough himself-- the vengeful God of the Old Testement, the conniving, vain Devil incarnate. He slew the masses who opposed him, promised immortality with his forked tongue to those who would serve him. After all, he had lived though the supposed birth of the Lord and Savior. History had written out his hand in the destruction of the innocent soul as he whispered 'Death' into Pontious Pilate's ear.

But angels, he could not find an argument against.

After all, the demon within stared back at him in the mirror. It was his wicked smile that curved the man's lips, his demented laughter that filled the room. Surely, if demons existed where God and the Devil did not, angels could not be so unbelievable; they were not hallucinations. Their wings, though feathers, were sharp as a razor's edge against his face in the shadows of the night. They haunted his every hour as such and he found himself perpetually aware of their presence, though unsure of their intent.

Angels were merciful, were they not?

Images of the Valkyrie flitted through his mind-- Odin and his diligent and loving handmaidens and the peace of Valhalla. They served the warriors, carried away the souls to a heaven no man could fathom. It was a vain fantasy for the Valkyrie would not haunt the living dead, torture the soul they sought. Still, when midnight came, his thoughts traveled to the beautiful women with the whitest of wings instead of the flaming orange and red that reached for him from every corner or the oil-rainbow of black that descended from the ceiling, calling his name.

These were the hostile angels that inhabited a world he did not believe in.

As he ran through the halls, they pursued him at a maddening rate. Would they not relent?_ Of course not, you silly creature!_ And why should they? Had he not wreaked enough havoc in his thousand year lifespan to deserve nothing less than their righteous punishment?

Through the catacombs he ran, his feet soundlessly scuffing the dusty stone.

Eternity had granted him patience, a cleverness he was positive they did not possess.

He would run through Hell to rid himself of their presence if he had to.

He would evade them.

He _would _win.

He was God and the Devil.


	8. viii ut quod somes

**stl: foo fighters, 'let it die'**

**

* * *

  
**

There was a time, when she spent her nights restlessly tossing and turning next him, that he would scatter gentle kisses along her body. On nights such as this, he would whisper his adoration of her strong body, caressing the defined muscles of her calves, the taut skin of her belly, his able fingers moving deftly. These nights, she fell in love with him over and over again. These nights, he claimed her with his teeth. These nights, she wrote their love story on his back in glaring, gaping wounds.

Those nights were so long ago, buried black and white in ash and ember.

He had told her it was for the best. He had told her there was no other way, it had to be. She stood there shaking in the fading hours of the day, a soft rain soaking her through to the bone, as he walked away. All of her life, she believed the fairytales told to her in the quiet minutes before sleep, believed in soulmates and destiny. The moment she laid eyes on him, she was love-struck and relentless in her devotion-- there was nothing that he could ask of her that she would not give, she would not do. For so long, he had given her all of himself; she was in his head, in his heart, in his mouth.

_'Love...'_

_What a cruel, hedonistic bitch that is._ She gathered thick, wet sediment from the riverbank and swiped her hand across her face; the mud formed crude streaks of warpaint. What she wouldn't give to feel wings sprout from her back, tear the skin and take flight. What she wouldn't give to slither into the water, her legs melting into a fin, swim into the bottom of the ocean and never return. She flung another handful of mud across the river, another and another until she was hurling rocks, miniature boulders, her sobs catching in her throat. She lay down, the pitiful wreck that she had become, praying to Gaea, to Tellus, to Terra to open her greedy mouth and swallow her whole.

The memories and the pain had become that unbearable.

But, she was not so far gone she would take her own life.

No, no, he wouldn't approve of that.

Dying a warrior, dying the stubborn prat she was in battle, he would accept.

She stood knowing the legend of their love affair would haunt him, knowing she could no longer hold the weight of it on her own shoulders.

She hoped he would forgive her of her trespasses.


	9. ix nox noctis rabidus

**stl: anamaniacs, 'pinky and the brain'**

**(sorry if it's not up to par, katie. this one was hard to write.)  
**

* * *

A giggle escaped between two pairs of tight lips as the hefted the oil drum from the truck bed.

_Giggling? Since when did we become school girls?_

As they shuffled their way through the school toward the gymnasium, the foul liquid contained in said barrel sloshed, threatening to spill over the very moment they were caught unaware in a fit of laughter. Sure, they were taking this little prank of theirs too far but they had had just about enough of the side-long glances, the gawking, catcalls and none-too-nice threats. People just didn't understand.

They weren't like that.

They were more like Dangermouse and Penfold, Batman and Robin. They had each other's backs at all times, both when creating mayhem and putting an end to it. The former had occurred much more often than the latter until recently. Not so long ago, they had been viewed as the 'Class Clowns,' the go-to guys for a good laugh. Now they were being ridiculed, laughed _at_. All because they were best friends, closer than brothers; naturally, this did not go unnoticed by the cruel minds of the surrounding student body. The world of locker-lined hallways was a torturous place to exist-- some days it felt as though it were a dead man's walk.

_This would teach them though._

They had been underestimated. Bonnie and Clyde had their heyday, Bacall and Bogi still lived in black and white infamy. So, too, would these brothers. They would once again rise to the occasion, two glittering stars in a filthy place, absent of individuality or humor. Perhaps now they could breathe again. Well, after the stink cleared out, of course. A chuckle ripped through the quiet night, bouncing off of the bleachers, the floor and back into its owner's face.

_'Shh!'_

Carefully, they placed their 'present' on the very edge of the catwalk above the stage and set to work creating the trap that would unveil just how intelligent and crafty they were capable of being. Rope looped over itself, fishing line was made into a trip wire; it all was coming together quite nicely, if they were so bold as to boast about it. They toiled until the early hours of an otherwise unremarkable Saturday morning.

Prom night was on the horizon.

In a few short hours, they would fall from the ranks of The Blues Brothers and become Pinky and the Brain.

But it would be worth it.

It was _always _worth it.


	10. x redeo volo

**stl: all american rejects, 'gives you hell'**

**

* * *

  
**

She hadn't changed much.

That was the first thing he noticed. She was still as thin as she was the first day his breath caught in his throat when he stuttered his name. Her face was still as warm and welcoming as the sun, still so beautiful after all this time. A part of him had forgiven her for the words she slung at him in the heat of the moment, drawing a ragged line in the sand, daring him to cross it. The rest of him (what was left after those barbed words had torn through him) still flared with anger gueled by his bitterness.

He would never let her see what she had done to him.

He would smile and nod and pretend that he wasn't die again and again just behind the shell that stood in front of her. He would hug her and laugh with her and clumsily dance with her. He would play the game of catch-up, talk meaningless conversation about the weather and the space in between their visits. He would let her carefully constructed sentences lead his tongue, avoiding the darker subject of just where things went wrong. He would cover her hand while he swallowed his heartbreak. He would kiss her cheek and promise to see her soon.

In his car, on the drive home, he would pull over and let the grief consume him.

This is exactly how the scenario will play out forever and ever, until death do they part. Until his last breath, he would never let her think for a moment he still called out to her in his sleep, that his arm still reached to pull her closer as he dreamed. No, these things he kept in their own box in the farthest corner of his mind. There were so many things in this world he couldn't protect her from, but this agony-- he would save her this much.

She was too innocent after all of these years for this kind of pain.

Truth be told, he still loved her.

He would still take her back if she asked.


	11. xi concero

**stl: rufus wainwright, 'hallelujah'**

**

* * *

  
**

It was their first night together; it was their last night together.

Every encounter, every second she was able to let her guard down, brought reality to the forefront of her mind: this would not last. They stole quick glances when circumstance permitted, brushed against each other at every opportunity but it was never enough. The ache thrummed insistently in her chest-- a whirring fan that would not cease. As his lips skimmed the skin of her neck, she arched against him, forgetting, for the moment, the repercussions of their actions. He left her breathless and unable to dwell on whether or not they would survive if they were found in this compromising position; it didn't matter anymore if they died tonight or the next or a century from now.

All that mattered was that, for all of her pretense and posturing, she was fragile.

In the night, behind velvet curtains, marble turned to porcelain as his had slid along her side. She softened, not by degrees, but by leaps. Under the alert gaze of his dark eyes, she allowed herself to fall apart entirely. Her fingers curled in his hair as his lips sewed beautiful lines, piecing her back together like a beloved and well-worn quilt. Tonight, though, the panic settled into her bones. Tonight, the fervent kisses along his shoulders, his neck, his jaw, his forehead, spoke of her fear. He was going away. She could feel the knowledge; no one had to say it to her. She could feel the tension in the muscles of his back as he rocked against her, his pace never increasing. The damp air was still, not even the crickets sang their mournful love songs to drown out her whimpers.

And then it was over.

She screamed in her mind; she raged. The anger was not directed at him. No, it may have ended too soon but this night was not about her physical needs. She had wanted to show him that, before he was gone, she already missed him. He had understood. But, now that it was over, now that the tremors could sneak in, she was a petulent child once again, clinging to the only body that made her strong, real. She longed to be real, to be loved like this for eternity. He was going. And she was powerless to stop it.

They walked to the door slowly, hours later, hand-in-hand. He squeezed hers gently as a soft smile played on the corners of his lips. She returned the gesture before opening the door and stepping into the cavernous world of the unknown. Her bravado would keep her alive in this place in his absence. The sickeningly toxic side of her would protect her breaking heart. He released her hand, a final goodbye. She stared after him, watching as he walked a line to an uncertain fate.

Her mask was once again firmly in place.


	12. xii decorus monasteriense

**stl: robert pattinson, 'never think'**

**

* * *

  
**

His fingers moved along the smooth wires, bringing out the painful melody of a song he was all too familiar with. The song fit with the weather. The weather suited his mood just fine; a dark grey sky that threatened to break loose with all of Heaven's tears at any moment. Inside his chest, he could feel the tightening. In his eyes were tiny pin-pricks of a foreign emotion, one that he thought he had left behind when his heart stopped its clamoring for life. His mind warred with his heart-- he had no reason to mourn and yet, here he was like a simpering child, pouting as she departed. Again.

Yes, this day was tailor-made for him it seemed.

He plucked the strings aimlessly as he closed his eyes and tilted back his head. Her face, full of terror, full of determination, greeted him. He would gladly give up eternity to wake next to her sleeping form, to see the lines of worry erased by dream's smooth hand. He longed to feel connected to her, to be the gravitational pull of her world. It wasn't that he loved her. Love, as the situation sat now, was the one emotion he didn't feel toward her. No, what he felt was an overwhelming need. A _need _to protect her. A _need _to love her.

Because he could, and would, have loved her into existence.

He would have given her every bit he had to offer and steal what he didn't. Her request would be his demand in the face of the world; if she had wanted sunny skies, he would have scaled the mountains and pushed the clouds aside. She would have fallen asleep in his arms, murmured promises lulling her to sleep. Promises he would keep, forever and ever so help him God. He would never have left her side, never left her doubting his motives, his devotion. He never would have left her so thoroughly alone, left her to believe, to think for a minute, that she was unloved by him.

It was an idle fantasy; an impossible fantasy.

He had led himself down this path so many, many times before now. Despite the code he pledged, the coat of arms he swore to, he would find instances of something close to love, if not love itself. They were warm, alive, so vital that his head would spin as those many pairs soft lips ate what was left of his resolve. He would give in, time and time again, praying that just one of them could understand, that one of them was willing to. Reality would creep into the corners of their blue, green, hazel, brown eyes and he would know-- his luck had run out. Some of them died at their own hands, some by his. And now, he was still alone, possibly more alone now than he had ever been before.

She knew, though, didn't she?

And she wasn't afraid.

The song drifted to a haunting close as a smile danced across his lips.

She wasn't afraid.


	13. xiii nex fio suus

**stl: avenged sevenfold, 'a little piece of heaven'**

**ps- this one...is a smidge more dark than those previous. okay, who the fk am i kidding-- it's dark. so dark there is no light whatsoever. you've been warned.  
**

**

* * *

  
**

Oh, this was fun. This was very, _very_ fun.

Out of the thousands of women he'd had in his bed, in hotel beds, on the stairs of the subway, he couldn't remember a single one who rolled their hips quite like she did while riding him. Though she was good, so fucking good, there was nothing else particularly remarkable or interesting about her-- at best, she rivaled a D-list porn star. One that would be the shining starlet in her own personal snuff film that would spread like wildfire through the Asian underground while her body went to Hell in a nameless desert outside Las Vegas.

The camera whirred as he zoomed in on her face, pearl white teeth clamped on a scarlet painted lip.

He wrapped his free arm around her waist, effectively changing positions without missing a stroke. He panned the frame out again, capturing her tawny body once again in the little screen and fading daylight. He smirked as she thrust her hips against him, begging him to move-- he was having none of that. This, this voyeurism was too much; the rise and fall of her chest, her desperate moans and frustrated whimpers were the most exquisite sound he had ever heard.

"Just like that, baby." He guided her hand to her breast. He had to hand it to her-- the girl knew how to act. He watched her on the screen for a while, purring promises of one more night, telling her outright she should have tried for stardom. Amused giggles filled the air and he quickly lost interest. A frown creased his face.

"It's a shame, really," He pressed his hand flat along her belly, steadying her and placing the still running camera on the night stand. "You're quite possibly my favorite. But, I'll always have this."

His smile turned deadly as he leaned forward, kissing her roughly. "Unfortunately, you won't get to see the finished product."

Her brow furrowed in silent question as his fingers snaked around her neck. He applied the lightest of pressure. "You'll be dead."

The giggling turned to a nervous tittering as he tightened his grip; fear swept across her face when reality finally came crashing down. _Oh yeah, sweetheart, I'm fucking serious_. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in the sensation of her death, the way her breath came in short, terrified gasps when he allowed, and the ecstasy she provided when her body spasmed around him.

The moon had risen when he decided he'd had enough.

His teeth cut into her flesh at random intervals, his throat flooded with the burning liquid. Once she was good and dead, he rolled off of her and lit a cigarette, the horrible human habit that that was. But for as long as it lasted, that flame, the nicotine, made him feel a little more normal, a little less fucked up. He looked back at his bed mate, her hazel eyes opened wide in fear.

He'd have to get rid of the body.

But first... another smoke.


	14. xiv ferox

**stl: atomic fireballs, 'man with the hex'**

**

* * *

**

He had to laugh.

They thought he would be loyal.

He was loyal to no one, save himself. It was what had kept him alive for so many years; he knew when to stick it out and fight for his coven and when to turn tail and disappear from sight. He had learned how to protect himself under the belly of the Blood Moon with chicken feet and frog's heart. He had practiced on his own covens hexes and Voudou rituals to rip them to shreds.

It hadn't always been this way.

His love affair over a century ago had changed his allegiance.

Miss Marie, with her ample curves and heavy-as-cream accent had convinced him of his destiny: he was not a follower, but a powerful, almighty leader. By her side, studying the movements of her delicate hands, he chanted the sacred words that would conjure taties and haints and the souls of the lost and forgotten. He spent many a day in the sweltering heat of the Louisiana bayou with her, enjoying the sweet scent of cinnamon that laced her skin. He missed the ease of her laugh, the safety of her cramped cottage.

That was long ago.

She had taught him all he needed to know in order to stand alone against any clumsy oaf stupid enough to challenge him. After all, she had so much as reminded him for the better of thirty years that this was her purpose in his life-- to mold him into a soldier and king. Now, though, it was more luck and skill than magical powders and amulets that bought him free of the shackles of his latest coven. He smirked as he exited the premises.

He would be the champion of this fight soon enough.

He just had to bide his time until the pieces fell into place, until his comrades walked into their deaths like blind sheep.

It would come soon, Marie's memory assured him as he darted through the dense forest.

It would come soon.


	15. xv tripudio tripudio

**stl: atomic fireballs, 'swing sweet pussycat'**

**

* * *

**

He danced around the minimalist room, his feet barely touching the plush carpet, a blur of black pants and button-down shirt and limbs. The movements came of their own accord; he had been doing this for so long that it was as natural as breathing. His mother had her painting, his father had his miniature models and he had this-- this was his relaxation, his escape from the hustle and bustle of the world. Locked away in this room he was free to be himself, to give in to the incessant pull of muscle and sinew. He was completely lost in the brassy saxophone, the trumpets, the embodiment of swing revival.

The important thing to remember was to not let the sweet melody cloud his mind.

The important thing was to _not get caught_.

Not that he would've cared, honestly. He was eccentric, never one to bow to convention. He wasn't a football star or cross-country runner, though he could have done both and excelled beyond anyone's pitiful imaginations. No, it wasn't that he was worried about what people would say but more that his retreat would no longer be his alone. When the music would start, they would know instead of just assuming he was merely listening. This was his and only his. He wasn't willing to share it with a soul.

Especially not this song.

The lyrics came tumbling from his mouth; he was consumed in the secret perversity. No one, especially her, thought he had it in him. If she could see him now, hear the words that moved him, she would more than likely die in a thousand shades of crimson and embarrassment. He couldn't help himself-- this particular song alleviated the demanding desire within him, kept the promiscuous tiger at bay. Yes, yes he was promiscuous, if only in thought. He was, after all, a man first and foremost, gentleman be damned.

While the genteel man inside brought her roses, whispered sweet nothings, opened doors, the man-whore in him wanted to ravage her every chance he got. Especially when she wore that little red number she had on last Friday. His tempo increased while visions marched through his head.

_I wanna slide with that pussy cat..._

Oh yes, yes he did.


	16. xvi regina nusquam

**stl: the killers, 'read my mind'**

**

* * *

  
**

The whole town seemed to be dead already.

It was barely nine.

But, that was how it was in small towns-- they rolled up the sidewalks early, shook them out early. A hard day's work for honest pay was the motto written on every hand, signed in callouses and blood and sweat. No one's family came from easy money, not even hers. She drove on aimlessly through the blank faced street, hands keeping time against the steering wheel with the music blaring from her speakers.

She'd give anything to just get the Hell out.

The expectations and gossip were wearing her thin. Everything about high school politics bored her these days. Once upon a time ago, she wanted to be the homecoming queen, the prom queen with her plastic smile and cubic zirconia tiara. These days, she just wanted a hand to slip into. Settling down had never been part of her agenda but now the cogs in her mind were slowly reversing, changing her thought process. After all, running away from this Godforsaken place was no longer an option but it didn't stop her from driving to the edge of town to stare down the Highway of Forever.

The Highway of Lost Hope.

The Highway of Forgotten Dreams.

When she'd had her fill of the firefly tail lights and absolute emptiness of it all, she would get back in her ancient Buick and lumber it back home where she would fall asleep to another life, another time where she had everything she ever wanted. A place where she hadn't ostrasized everyone who truly cared about her and alienated those who might one day love her. She would wake up in her too small bed to her lackluster life, paint the eternal clown face on and move through the motions, her heart still aching for just one person to see through her.

It was lonely at the top.


	17. xvii cras nunquam adveho

**stl: matchbox 20, '3 am'**

**

* * *

**

_Here, take this._

At the time, it had felt like such an insignificant gesture. _Take your coat. Don't forget your coat._ He had humored her and slipped it on before kissing her good-bye. She couldn't quite put her pretty little finger on it, but something about that kiss felt so wrong, out of place. The cosmos was shifting and not in their favor, thunderheads loomed in the distance-- the promise of rain and hurt.

_Take your coat._

If she had kept him just a minute more, maybe things would be different. If she had drawn out the kiss. If she had been clever enough to delay his travel by a day. If she had just followed her gut and begged him to stay, maybe he would be here with her now. She rocked, clutching his coat to her chest, inhaling his scent, letting the mud and the cold seep into the knees of her jeans. This loss was too much; too familiar.

_I'm trying, love. I'm trying so very hard._

She had always considered herself such a flawless judge of character and she knew, knew in her soul, he was doing as he said. He was trying. For her, for them, for whatever future lay before them-- he was trying. He had lain beside her so many nights in the beginning, telling her of his worst times, his betrayals. With his confessions pooling around them, he swore he wanted a change, a better life. A life where he worried less about who was behind him and paid more diligent attention to who was next to him.

_I'm going to marry you one day._

One day was now a day too late. The sky above her, dawn or dusk she was unsure, rumbled with such vengence she was sure it was answering her anguished screams. _One more day, love._

One more day.


	18. xviii incendia in aequora

**stl: bush, 'comedown,' 'glycerine'  
**

**

* * *

  
**

She slipped beneath the scalding water, drowning herself in the liquid heat.

In her sleepless dreaming, she saw his face as perfectly flawed as it had been the day they met. That day, the gloriously warm day that it had been, everything she had known and believed so thoroughly in fell to pieces-- she was not, did not have to be, alone. Bemused at her disheveled state, he had extended his hand and assisted her out of the cavern she had taken refuge in. In that moment, when her fear and trepidation had suddenly vanished, she realized that she could never live a moment without his predator eyes, his keen understanding of her every move.

_Bliss._

That's what their love had been-- fifty years of bliss. Fifty years of something more real to her than the ground beneath her feet, the sky above her head. It had taken her years to learn how to move around him, how to navigate his extreme emotional states, but she had mastered it, come to love him for the ever wavering fault lines between love and hate, need and disgust. No one, not in her human life or in this afterlife, had touched her soul the way he did. No one sent the thrill of new love running through her the way a solitary glance and a slow smile from his lips could. For fifty years, she had lived in a perpetual state of euphoria.

In one swift, rash judgment, she had tumbled from her castle in the sky.

That castle, built on the hopes and dreams of words like 'forever,' 'eternity' and 'infinity,' burned to ashes in the sweltering night. She had been evicted from her throne, banished to Hell to walk on cinders, over glass, despair as far as the eye could see. The days had blurred together, smatterings of dark and light punctuated by the ticking of the clock; time was now rendered irrelevant to her conscious mind. She withdrew into herself, into her memories and daydreams. The loss was palpable-- a fresh, stinging wound that opened itself over and over again, giving her no reprieve.

The searing heat captured by porcelain granted her the only peace she had come to know.

It felt so close to the fire.

It felt so like the heat of his arms.

In this space, he was with her again.


	19. xix filius

Every day he was learning.

The first word he ever learned was 'напиток.'

The second was 'мать.'

After that, the words and phrases came of their own accord, slipping from his throat with ease. Every day, this life became more effortless for him; he educated himself in his mother's shadow, in the freshly churned soil behind the plow. It had taken him months, but he had finally mastered self-restraint and perfect control. Now he was free to wander about their property, trailing his pull-toy duck behind him. Summer days, he traveled behind the oxen, their deep musky blood permiating the air. In the fall and winter months, he built his towers, pillars of smooth wood for his mother. Then, there were days, he would merely sit beneath the monsterous, needled trees and read, absorbing as much information as he was given.

Every day was another fresh experience.

Soon, too soon it seemed, other words crept into his vocabulary.

зло.

монстры.

_смерть. _

The last shook him to his core; sent him scurrying behind his mother's skirt, suddenly afraid of every strange pair of eyes, leery of any approaching party. He was a good boy. A good boy! He wanted to wail, to throw himself upon the dirt floor and cry. It would not have been out-of-character for his age, but for his intelligence-- well, it was extreme. They would run. They would hide with, like, the forrest vermin from their pursuers. His mother, his sweet, devoted mother would coo softly into his ear to quiet him, smooth his hair, lulling him into a sense of security.

мать.

мать.

It would be less than a week, he knew. Even the hushed murmurings from across the room could not be drowned by the roaring winds and pinging of the rain against the window panes. They could out run forever and still not have enough time. He would not let his mother suffer because of his existence. He snuck from the cramped shack, prepared to run, to save her at the very least.

He was too late.

The riders were coming for them.

мать.

мать.  
_  
Мать, спасите меня!_

* * *

напиток -- drink

мать -- mother

зло -- evil

монстры -- monsters

смерть -- death

Мать, спасите меня! -- mother help me


	20. xx permissum rex cado

**stl: dave matthews band, 'eh hee'**

**

* * *

**

He went unnoticed; that much he knew for sure.

He was no more than a figment of anyone's imagination, a formidable wraith, a whisper of the bogey man. As soon as he spoke, the carefully constructed sentences were forgotten by those around him, left them wondering if he had spoken at all. When he departed, they would be unable to recall his face. It had been this way all of his life-- it was an oddity he had grown accustomed to and was, truth be told, quite fond of. On many, many orders he would mysteriously appear and be gone again, the seedlings of gripping terror firmly rooted in the souls he sought without memory of what was said or who had been by their side.

His king and consorts knew his name and that was enough for him.

What they failed to recollect was his Haitian descent, his native tongue and magic that boiled beneath his skin. This, of course, left him with the element of surprise when the time would come. He longed to be a free man; having no master, no chains that cinched tight around his wrists was the life he longed for. He had never tasted freedom a day in his too-long existence. _Soon_, he soothed the pacing demon in his mind. Soon, he would light the fire, pave the way to his emancipation with the dead and dying bodies of his captors as his ancestors had.

Their voices, thousands of them, sang to him.

He allowed himself to be overcome with the white noise of their chants, see the priests and Queens dancing around, faces masked and painted. He permitted the eons old witchcraft to vibrate through his decrepit veins, filling his body to the brim until it spilled from his lips. This Houdou satiated his thirst more, no better, than any warm trickling of blood. All he had to do was bide his time as a shadow.

Soon he would be a free man.

He would never bend his knee in surrender again.

_There would be king left to surrend to_.


	21. xxi lingua diligo

**stl: snow patrol, 'run'**

**

* * *

**

His movements drove her mad.

Every easy stroke, every whisper along her skin sent wave after wave of painfully beautiful electricity through her. She wrapped her smooth legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside. Flagrant emotions roiled within, coiling around her heart, squeezing until it was unbearable. Even after all this time, all of these years by his side, he was still able to pull from her forgotten words of love, gentle memories she had unintentionally cast aside in favor of the heat of the moment. She wanted to cry from the shame of her lapses in memory, the sheer ecstasy of having him so close, the feel of how he made love to her.

This is what no book, no movie in history could get quite right.

The masters of ink and film failed to encompass the delicate caramel-flavored kisses, the lazy, lusted eyes, the shivering, the internal wailing for more, harder, closer, _now_. They did no justice to the gasping, hungry mouths and deep red hatch marks across backs. It was hardly fair to blame them-- there were no words in any language that could compare, that could be translated from the moans, the trailing fingertip touches, the stares. None of their shortcomings mattered to her, however. He had been the one to teach her this foreign dialect while she was still a human, trembling under his tongue, his palm, him.

She had been deaf, but she knew this language the instant his lips touched hers.

And still, the recognition of his body on hers, in hers, thrilled her to the core. His fingers dug into her hips and she could feel the release building, not from her belly like the books would have you believe, but from every point along her skin, every muscle tensed with the sensation before her mind became consumed by it. She cried out in wordless prose.

He smiled down at her, understanding the poetry perfectly.


	22. xxii anhelo

**stl: serj tankian, 'saving us'**

**

* * *

**

If Hell were a place of smoldering ash and unyielding screams, she had fallen straight through to the other side where the deafening silence roared in her ears.

In the beginning, of course, it had been every bit the Hell and damnation that the Sunday preacher warned her of. In the beginning, her choked screams and agony had been depicted perfectly in Dante's "Inferno." But, after all this time, she had managed to contain the ache where her heart had once been, kept the pain under lock and key. The image of his face no longer caused her to pause, recoiling until the tears were under control; now, now she wielded an iron fist when the mirage crept in her peripheral. All that was left was to contain the anger that she was drowning in, the quickly rising tide of hatred toward his betrayal.

His love had been no more than a game.

Bitterness left a sickly sweet taste in her mouth as she lit a match and held it just below the decaying words of adoration, promises of marriage that had been written in his eloquent script. The flame licked the paper once, twice, three times before devouring it in its blistering mouth. She let go and watched intently as it floated into the pit before tossing photographs, black and white stills of happier days, on top of the blaze. It seemed fitting that they would die like this, wrapped in one another's arms, even if only on paper.

The wind scattered the ashes, carrying them away from her.

For the first time in far too long she felt able to breathe again.


End file.
